


After Amsterdam

by thewolfmoon



Category: The Goldfinch - Donna Tartt
Genre: M/M, lil bit of angst, lil bit of smut, you know how it is with them
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-20
Updated: 2018-02-20
Packaged: 2019-03-21 15:42:19
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,692
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13744104
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thewolfmoon/pseuds/thewolfmoon
Summary: Theo's last night in Antwerp doesn't go as planned





	After Amsterdam

**Author's Note:**

> Come visit me at borispav on tumblr for more Goldfinch stuff :))

Theo guesses he should’ve seen it coming.

In retrospect, it was practically inevitable. Though Boris’ loft was spacious, airy, they somehow always ended up brushing shoulders, never really standing or sitting farther from each other than arm’s reach. 

They fell into routine a little too easily. Functioned in tandem like they’d been living there for years, like there wasn’t a near decade pulling them away from the kids they used to be. 

Theo spends most of his time avidly trying  _not_  to think about Vegas, but Boris, of course, makes it almost impossible. 

_Potter, remember when-_

_Hey, you know that time we-_

_Ah come on, I know you did not forget-_

Theo  _didn’t_  forget, he remembers it all, and maybe even a little bit too well. Because now, with Boris seated happily on the kitchen countertop, feet swinging back almost childishly against the cabinets, it easily feels like they could be 15 again. He’s making dinner, at Boris’ request. They’d gone out the last two days, and so Boris had insisted Theo cook tonight, ‘just like old times’. He’d even had the entire fridge stocked for the occasion.

Theo dips a wooden spoon into the steadily boiling stew and begins to stir. He’d had to fish it out of an unopened box of utensils. Like most of the things in the flat it was new, untouched. Purchased to give off some sense of domesticity. 

Boris hums idly beside him, and Theo is thankful that, for once, he isn’t talking. The wordless silence is comforting to him, a type of peace he’d grown to miss. With Kitsey there’d always been a seemingly endless stream of chatter. Her voice, high and light, weaving its way around him incessantly. At least Boris understands when to stop. Knows when Theo wants to talk, and when he doesn’t. There isn’t much to say, anyway. They’d talked their mouths dry in the days prior, futilely attempting to color in the monochrome gap between them. Where had they been? What had they seen? What was different?                   

 _Who_  was different?

But the time for those questions has finally faded out. Theo’s suitcase is packed. He leaves in the morning. 

So he keeps his mouth shut. Some part of him believing that if he starts talking, he won’t stop. That he’ll ramble on about endings, and patterns, and the universe repeating itself all over again. He’ll start thinking about goodbyes, and second goodbyes. About a stalled cab and a late night kiss. 

He’s not here to pick at scabs, tear open old wounds. Their business, as far as he’s concerned, is done. 

Boris takes the spoon from Theo and lifts it up to his mouth for a taste. 

“Is good,” he says, smiling. 

“No, it’s gotta cook a little longer.”

Boris rolls his eyes. “Longer? No no no, you overthink too much. Any more and is gonna burn.” He hops off the counter and turns off the stove, pulling Theo away from it by the wrist. Theo jolts at the touch. 

Boris asks him what’s the matter, but judging from the look in his eyes and the rise of his brows he already knows.

“Nothing,” Theo says, answering the question before Boris can, “let’s eat.”

 

* * *

 

After dinner they sit, wine-drunk and lazy, on the couch. There’s reruns playing on the TV, old movies which they watch in a dreamlike succession.  _Wuthering Heights, Gone with the Wind,_   _It’s a Wonderful Life._

Somewhere during the fourth film Theo realizes that he isn’t really paying attention anymore. He’s tired, bored. It’s probably close to 2 in the morning, he should be getting some sleep. 

He turns to tell Boris this, only to find that his eyes aren’t on the screen at all. They’re on him. 

Theo sucks in a breath, watching the way the blue glow from the TV plays at Boris’ face. He’s all shadows and sharp angles, a sight Theo knows all too well.

“Uh,” he says, slightly deterred by the fact that Boris hasn’t broken his gaze, “I think I should get some sleep.”

Boris yawns, lifts his arms above his head and arches his back against the pillows in a catlike stretch. “Oh?” He says, “You’re sleepy?”

Theo tries not to stare at Boris’ now hiked up shirt, the band of his boxers peeking out and above the waistline of his jeans. 

“Yeah,” Theo says, his own voice sounding high and faraway, “exhausted.”

“Mmm” Boris says, turning his body so that he’s facing Theo. He leans in, “You remember that night when-”

Theo zones out. 

They’re close. Close enough that Theo can smell the Merlot on Boris’ breath, sweet and heavy. He watches Boris’ lips move as he talks, shaping out words that fall on deaf ears. But it’s okay. Theo knows this story. He’s visited the memory more times than he can count. 

Boris smiles in a way that’s almost shy. Puts a hand on Theo’s knee and squeezes. “I missed this,” he says, “you.”

His palm is warm. Theo can feel the heat spreading through the fabric of his pants.                                                                                                                _What are you-_

He means to say the words but they don’t make it past his lips. The television drones on, forgotten by the both of them. He reaches for Boris’ hand, intending to pull it off of his knee, but stops once his fingers graze the roughened skin of Boris’ knuckles. There’s something sharp and dizzying thrumming through him, tugging at something deep. 

Boris curls his fingers and Theo shivers. Puts his hand over Boris’ and drags it, slow and steady, up and over the rest of his thigh before finally letting it settle in the slim space between his legs.

“Potter,” Boris breathes. His eyes are hooded, his cheeks splotched crimson. 

Theo’s heart thunders in his chest.

“Bed,” he says, “now.”

They shoot up from the couch as one, a tangle of limbs interlocked, knocking against every piece of furniture that sits in their way. Boris has his hands beneath Theo’s shirt, is trying to tug it off him as they stumble toward the bed frame. Theo lifts his arms and Boris slips it off. They fall back against the sheets.

Theo doesn’t think. Not about about his suitcase, zipped up and ready by the door. Not about the plane tickets, or the ride home, or Kitsey or Pippa or anyone or anything else. 

This, this is the only thing that’s real now. Boris’ skin flashing, pale and white beneath the moonlight. His lips dragging against Theo’s neck, his jaw. His fingers hooking through the belt loops of his slacks. Their breaths come out in low, staccato, gasps. Theo’s hands roam the now bare expanse of Boris’ back. He can feel each and every knob of his spine.  

It’s been a long time since his body has pressed itself against something this rough. The rigid sturdiness of muscles that have been toned, strained. The push and pull that’s equal in strength- maybe even more so- to his own. He doesn’t miss the softness. The supple hills and valleys of all the people he’s touched before. 

Boris rolls his hips against him, desperate, hungry. Theo slips a hand through his curls and nods against his chest, the need pooling low in his belly all at once becoming too much to ignore. 

“Please,” Theo says. 

It’s all Boris needs.

  

* * *

 

When it’s over they lay, silent, in bed. Theo’s head is resting against the hollow of Boris’ neck. He can feel his pulse fluttering, light and fast. 

It’s dark, but he can still make out all the light marks littering Boris’ chest. There’s that freckle, right beneath his collarbone, that Theo remembers from when they were kids. And that scar, shaped somewhat like a T, that sits against his ribs. There are new ones too, of course. Different freckles that have surfaced over the years, with age. Foreign scars. A bruise blooming down low, by his navel.

He should’ve seen it coming.

Boris traces blind patterns onto the tip of Theo’s shoulder. Theo leans into the touch, allows himself to curl up closer, breathe in as much of this as he can. He doesn’t want it to be over. He wants this, all of it. He wants to find a home in the tangle of sheets, in this mess of limbs. Because it’s safe. Because it’s Boris. Because, no matter what he tells himself, he knows he’s never going to know the map of anyone else’s body as well as he knows this one. 

The weight of the last few days wash over him like a wave crashing the shore. He eyes the bandages still wrapped tight around Boris’ arm, thinks about gunshots splitting open the night air, about fevers, and bloodstains, and unfinished notes. 

He lets his eyes fall close.

“Theo.”

The sound of his name pulls him back into attention. He looks up at Boris, who is trying to meet his gaze.

“Yeah?”

Boris’ hand stills on his shoulder. He worries at his bottom lip, his expression soft but unreadable. 

“You know,” he pulls in a breath, “you know I love you. Yes?”

The last half of the sentence comes out rushed, a tumble of words that bleed into each other, clumsy. Theo understands nonetheless, and the swarm of heat that creeps onto his cheeks reminds him of their nights in Vegas. He looks away. Tries to quell his breathing. 

Boris rambles. “I know, I didn’t say it before. Was bad of me. But I do, Potter, and you’re-”

“Shh.” Theo pushes himself up, levels his face with Boris’. He doesn’t want him to continue. He can’t continue. It’d just make things harder, and he isn’t ready for that. Boris eyes him warily, and Theo almost slips out a sigh at how beautiful he looks. Lips a swollen pink, raven curls falling over his face every which way.

He doesn’t want this to end. 

“It’s okay,” he says, pulling Boris’ face to meet his, “it’s all right. I love you too.” 

They fall into a kiss and Theo savors it. Loses himself in it because, for now, it’s all they can do. 

At least they have tonight. 


End file.
